The words are said and they merge with foliage. The air is filled with moss-grown bubbles of undergrowth, they appear over the mercury filled pools, yet their reflections don’t. Confidingly you grab at the flames of bonfire, it doesn’t burn, as it turns out you hold ears of grain in your hand. In the swathes of shadow alternative beginnings and endings to the stories lurk. You are here for the third day and only know there were two of them. They were friends and knew each other for a long time. October came and Pebble ate Shroomie.